


the thief

by destinedtobelokid



Series: King AU [1]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Gavin's insane, Gen, He Just wants to watch the world burn, king AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-19
Updated: 2014-02-19
Packaged: 2018-01-13 01:39:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1208092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destinedtobelokid/pseuds/destinedtobelokid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>In the province of King Geoff, there is one man the ruler cannot grasp hold of; the Thief, as the people have named him. A man shrouded with shadows and stealth-magic of the most deceiving king. They know him not as an assassin, he seldom brought harm to the people, but he took what he liked and those who intend him harm court with death’s embrace.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	the thief

**Author's Note:**

> I have a file with 15+ King AU plots and I'm going to slowly work my way through writing them. King AU's are my new favourite thing oh gosh

In the province of King Geoff, there is one man the ruler cannot grasp hold of; the Thief, as the people have named him. A man shrouded with shadows and stealth-magic of the most deceiving king. They know him not as an assassin, he seldom brought harm to the people, but he took what he liked and those who intend him harm way court with death’s embrace.

He takes all he wishes; food from the markets in the lower city slums, copper wares from foreign merchants come to trade locals for whatever coin they possess, lockets from girls, and rings from wives. An abundance of items taken with ease and confidence; the man eludes the eye and walks with the silence of the dead.

A thief, King Geoff can make do with, he can ignore a pickpocket, but he cannot ignore acts of arson, violence and sabotage. The Thief is infamous for his ways with gunpowder; a handful thrown onto the ground, a word of magic-trickery, and it explodes, throwing dirt, and people stumble in a daze, vision whitened by the flare of the explosion.

The fires, when they first roar, are minute and easily excusable on the summers scorching heat. But their placement is too planned; one small lick of flame left to grow under its own guidance every fifty feet from the gates of the castle to the road leading out to the surrounding villages King Geoff holds claim over.

As King Geoff had leaned against the balcony, overlooking his city, his eyes tracked over the dying smoke. The fires had risen as one, too well timed to be anything but magic. The spacing between each fire was puzzling. But soon the king could pinpoint it; it was a game, and the Thief was the only participant.

While King Geoff doesn’t understand the purpose of such games, they are dangerous and those who play with fire burn for it. He issues guards to stand watch over the fires originate, and as Geoff suspects, they don’t appear again.

Then the mischief moves inside the castle, and the king’s temper boils, ready to spill. Portraits, paintings of the finest oils, are taken, snatched in the dark of the night. They are of worth, but none will buy what is obviously royal possession. But soon the pictures return, strung carelessly from their hooks, each with the same tear in the canvas. A single cut along the necks of the portraits focus- a deceased king, or a glorified queen, or a valiant knight- they all receive the same stroke with a blade.

The king’s council see it as a threat, a warning. They insist the Guard’s placed outside Geoff’s chambers be raised, and demand he be under close supervision throughout the day. He agrees, wishing to keep his people in as much ease as he can.

Months pass and the portraits heal; wax sealing the slices, and the Thief’s activities retreat. Boredom, King Geoff muses. The Thief is one for games and havoc. He doesn’t appear to have a motive, a sense for revenge or a driving force. He steals and he burns and he slits the throats of past nobility. If anything, the king thinks the man does it for the reaction; the fear, the caution, the outbursts of anger. The raw emotion his actions cause.

The Thief’s sanity is questionable, King Geoff knew.

When the treasury was robbed, the king calls for his council, his patient worn into a single thread.

Three large quartz, each the size of a human skull, several stings of the finest topaz necklaces- the one’s his mother used to wear upon her collarbone- and a chest of gold coins.

Pick pocketing townsfolk is one thing, setting fires in the streets for entertainment is another, but stealing from the King’s personal vaults is treason.

“Raise the Thief’s bounty tenfold. I want that man brought to justice.” The decree echoes through the council room, and the king watches his subjects bow their heads, two pages leaving the room to rewrite the notice hanging upon the boards posted throughout the city. He acknowledges them with a curt nod of his head, and takes his leave, retiring to his chambers for the evening.

Not a candle-mark past dawn, the King’s guards find his body.

He lies peaceful, if not for the drowning _red_ , one could confuse him for sleeping. The ringing of steels slices through the air, as the men draw upon their swords, three turning to scour the room for the assassin, while another turns on his heel and flees the room, to ring the alarm-bell and signal an attack. The gates of the castle and lower city would be closing in minutes; the King’s soldiers would fall in line seconds after. The remaining guardsman steps closer to the monarch, lowering his weapon.

The murder is one of perfection and stealth; only a man of profuse skill could execute such a kill without drawing the attention of the five guards posted not a foot outside the room.

The guard need not check for life; a thin line across the king’s throat, cutting through vocal cords and opening his throat, for his blood to pour into his lungs. The white cotton of the king’s nightshirt is razed red, darkening at the edge, where the air licks lifeblood dry.

There is no obvious signs of struggle; no blemishes upon the king’s skin- once lightly tan from hours spent in the training fields, duelling with his knights, not a wanly ashen colour, the signs of a body bleed dry. The man’s expression is that of a sleeping man; the lines of stress that age him during council meetings are absent, his brow unpinched, and his lips part softly. The king is stiff; his limbs arranged neatly atop unturned sheets, his feet together, and his arms crossed over his abdomen, hands resting on one another.

He looks almost fit for burial. If not for the rivets of blood that have spilled from his throat, he might have well been laying on top a stone table deep in the catacomb’s belly, awaiting mourning. The king even wore his crown; the golden spikes glisten and reflect the dawn’s first light. The circlet shines with the riches and worth of the kingdom, yet, the jewels- blood red rubies, slivers of sapphire, drops of emerald- were gone. Leaving sunken wounds with faded and scratched gold in the valleys the rich stones had once resided, the incisions- shallow and thin- bought by the sharp tip of a dagger that had wrenched the gems from their resting place.

The guard took pause, eyes falling upon the monarch’s vandalised crown. Dread unfurled in his belly. If the king’s wound; a slit throat, wasn’t proof enough, the missing jewels betray the killer.

“The Thief!” He shouts, turning to his brothers-in-arms. The warning bell, a thunderous sound that echoes throughout the halls of the castle, confirms his accusation. As the alarm tolls, more guards enter the king’s chambers, a physician following close on their tails. His robes billowed around him, as he swooped forward.

“The King is dead?” The elderly healer queries.

“Aye.” The guard bows his head in respect, stepping aside to let the man past.

The old man crowds closer to the king’s still body. His lips thin and his eyes grow wet, with grief for the king he’d watch grow from a babe to a man, a prince to a king.

“Who?” The Guards Captain asks.

“The crown has been defaced by the assassin-”

“The Thief.” The physician interrupts. He turns from the king with a look of disdain moulding his face. “That boy has troubled us for many years, stealing from our treasury, and pick pocketing merchant wares, but this is an act of utmost treason.”

“He’ll burn for this.” The Guards Captain growls.

“See to it that he does.”

The guardsmen disperse to meet with the soldiers and knights gathering in the courtyard below the king’s window.

The Guards Captain orders the city locked down, and every lodge searched for the Thief.

The man in question hides above, perching on the highest pillar of the tower, gazing down at the scene below. He watches the warriors scatter; so small they’re nothing but mere ants for Gavin to squash beneath his boot.

“Ten thousand gold coins for my head, King.” Gavin cocks his head, lips curving in a smirk. “I’m flattered. But alas,” he raises his gloved fist, where the crown’s riches are captive within. “I don’t fancy dying today.”

“Perhaps I’ll pay King Michael a visit.” Gavin murmurs to the wind ruffling his hair. “It’s been _so_ long since I’ve seen my _dearest_ friend.”

Smiling, Gavin shifts, rising onto his feet, knees bent to keep him balanced. He opens his fists, eyes tracing over the cut gems resting against his palm. He soothes a thumb over their glossy form, and pockets them in the pouch hooked to his belt.

Securing them to his person, the Thief lifts the flat of his scarf, and drapes it across the lower half of his face. The makeshift mask settles into place, knotted so it doesn’t fall from his face, and he raises his arms, fingers grappling to grasp the hem of his hood. He brings it up and over his head, the hem lies above his sight, blocking the bright mounting sun.

He reaches down for his satchel. His hands curl around a coil of a rope and a grappling hook, he pulls it from the satchel, buckles the bag closed and swings it up on his back. He loosens the rope, swinging the hook.

It picks up momentum, the swing becoming bigger, the rope growing longer as Gavin calculates the distance from the castles rooftop, to the tallest scope of the trees surrounding the keep.

He lets the hook fly; it hooks itself around a sturdy branch, and the rope stretches taut, secure.

Beneath him, a squabble of knights are gathering, searching for a man they will never find.

Gavin offers the unsuspecting knights below a salute, tugs the rope and jumps, crossing over the castle’s walls and into the forests.

He lands on the branch beneath his grapple hook, and unfastens it, ties it to his belt, and begins the descent, jumping from branch to branch, shuffling along the weaker limbs, launching from one to another, until he’s mere feet above the forest floor. He takes the final leap and lands on his feet, twisting back to face the wall.

He can just see the helms of the guards as they rush to the walls edge. He gives them a curt nod and then he’s gone into the depths of the woods. His green garb providing him with the ability to blend with the shrubbery, while his handful of gunpowder will give him extra cover if the perusing men should get so close.

They do not get so. The Thief is too fleet-footed for their armour-weighted bodies to catch, and the Thief and King Killer eludes them in minutes.

The last they saw of him, the man was heading straight towards the lands of the young King Mogar.


End file.
